


A Good Night

by Ashling



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Peter Pevensie is Queensguard, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Tenderness, me at the beginning: I'm fond of these characters, me by the end:I WOULD DIE FOR THEM.OTP OTP OTP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23232409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: Peter had served Sansa for six years, fought for her several times, and nearly died for her twice. In all that time, he could count on his fingers the number of times she had touched him, and he had never touched her.Still, he was content.
Relationships: Peter Pevensie/Sansa Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 74
Collections: All The Nice Things Flash Exchange 2020





	A Good Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artemis1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [美好一夜](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23359714) by [江尚寒 (jiangshanghan)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiangshanghan/pseuds/%E6%B1%9F%E5%B0%9A%E5%AF%92)



Peter had served Queen Sansa for six years, fought for her several times, and nearly died for her twice. In all that time, he could count on his fingers the number of times she had touched him, and he had never touched her.

Still, he was content. It had taken him a long time to reconcile himself to the loss of Narnia, and had it not been for his family, he would have thrown himself against the impenetrable Telmarine navy in defiance of that loss. Only in these past few years had he learned to forget that impulse, though he would never forget Narnia, and never love another country. The North paled in comparison, but he had found there was more than country to love in life.

The night was young, and his belly was full, and he stood true guard tonight, not open and expected and armored and useless outside her door, but inside her room. None but the Queen and her closest advisors knew of this arrangement, which was why just then, Peter was standing in a little alcove in the wall hidden from sight by a hanging tapestry, while Sansa's healer, who did not rank as a particularly close advisor, finished her inspection of her patient.

He had already known that her prognosis would be good—he had seen the color come back to Sansa's cheeks himself, heard her heavy breathing in the night as the sickness eased and her sleep improved—but it still heartened him to hear the healer say, distinctly, "You'll be yourself again in a week." It was so comfortingly definitive.

Eventually, the healer went away, and he heard Sansa bolting the door behind her, but still he waited until she said, "It's all right, Peter," before he stepped out into the open. 

She was sitting before her mirror, looking dejectedly into it. He would have liked to say something about a certain woman who could afford to miss a council meeting or two, and who should have done it today, and would have done it were it not for her stubbornness, but it wasn't his place, and more importantly, he knew he couldn't have convinced her.

"Maybe Arya was right," she said. "It would be easier to cut it all off."

"It serves you well," Peter said, taking up his usual position against the far wall, next to the window (most likely point of attack) and facing the door.

"It's too much work." Sansa picked up one of her two combs, the larger one, with wider spaces between the teeth, and began to work on her hair. "And in what way does it serve me? It's not thick enough to mean anything against the Northern cold."

"I did not mean warmth," he said. "I meant beauty."

Peter would not have said it, six years ago; Sansa would not have smiled a small, wry smile, either. "Does my beauty serve me well?" she said, and he heard the many other questions behind it.

"All the best swords are double-edged," he said.

Her smile widened a touch. "You've been around me too long, Peter. Your answers have become so diplomatic, they're beginning to border on poetry."

"Bad poetry or good poetry?"

"Peter."

"It is the truth, my Queen."

"I suppose you think that's a good excuse." Sansa, stuck on a particularly vexing knot, put down her comb. "It's for the best, really. Early tomorrow morning, I will wake up and complain about how much trouble my hair is, and you, having slept not at all, will have to draw on all your diplomacy not to say, _you know you should've done a decent job yesterday, silly woman._ "

"Silliness is not one of your faults."

Sansa disappeared into her closet. "Should I be disturbed that you catalogue my faults so diligently, Peter?" (She seemed to say his name often, and if there was only the two of them, she would say it sans Ser, which he liked.)

"It would be difficult for anyone to spend as much time with you as I have, and not come to know you."

"I can't decide whether to appreciate that knowledge, or fear it." Sansa emerged from her closet in a blue woolen nightgown. He had noticed that she wore more color in her room than outside it, blues and greens, the occasional burgundy. Today, the blue matched her eyes. The color of a calm sea on a cloudless day.

Peter had trained himself not to stare. It was only a second before he looked away, back at the bolted door. "You have, now as ever, nothing to fear from me."

"And you have, now as ever, too strong a focus on violence. There's more than one kind of danger in the world, Peter." Sansa sat down before her mirror again.

Violence was the danger he was employed in preventing, and it wasn't as if he posed a political danger, anyhow. Sansa must be getting sleepy; Peter didn't entirely understand her. He was going to say all that, but then he had to stop himself from smiling, because she was picking up the comb again with a dogged look on her face. This stubbornness, this discipline, this insistence on never doing tomorrow what she could do today, was one of the qualities he admired most in her, even as it sometimes infuriated him. She deserved to taste some of the same mercy she occasionally gave to others, but never allowed herself. Probably this was what kept her on the throne and their borders solid, but still. He wanted what he wanted. 

Sansa looked at him. "You've gotten quiet."

Without thinking, Peter held out his hand.

"Have you secretly trained to be a handmaiden? Is that a Narnian tradition?" Sansa said, but then, before he could think better of what he was doing, she put the comb in his hand and turned around.

The comb was made of polished bone. It felt lighter than it looked. Peter made the decision quickly; he didn't want her to feel his hesitation.

"I have sisters," he said, and reached for her hair.

It was fine-textured to the touch, and cooler than skin, and he was as careful with it as if it might cut her. First, he parted her hair down the middle, and gently lifted the left half of it over her shoulder. There were a few stray strands. He tried not to touch her face, but he was acutely aware that he had brushed two fingers against her neck. When he looked in the mirror, he saw her eyes were closed. She looked just as he had felt at the beginning of night, settling in for a long watch, content.

He combed through her hair in long slow strokes, at first only from the middle of the strands to their ends, lengthening each stroke until he reached her scalp. He did this for both sections of hair, right and left, and then set the bone brush aside. There was a second comb, golden and fine-toothed with a bird for a handle, and it was this comb that he began to use although he knew he didn't need it. Her hair had gone silken to the touch, and he could see from the way the candlelight hit it that no knots remained. Once, he ran his fingers very lightly down her hair, no comb involved.

Neither of them were smiling, but he felt sure that neither of them were unhappy. He allowed himself a minute more, and then he said, "Is that enough?"

"Hm?"

"Sansa." He put down the comb with a distinct sound of metal against wood. It was loud enough to make up for the quiet of his voice. "You ought to sleep."

"You're right." She opened her eyes, and curiously, she looked down and along the table as she stood up, when he had been expecting a glance. Difficult to anticipate when sleepy, he decided.

The wall was solid and cold against his back. He felt taut, as though he was waiting for something. Sansa wasn't breathing like she had fallen asleep yet; perhaps that was it. Peter leaned over and blew out the candle. The darkness seemed enormous before his eyes could adjust.

"Peter?" Sansa said his name not like a demand for his attention; she said it like it was a question, in itself.

"Yes?"

He could feel his own heartbeat. He could begin to make out the shape of her under the blankets, a faint glint of red on her pillow. He didn't know what he was waiting for, but he was waiting with a fierceness of anticipation that startled him.

Finally, Sansa said, "Goodnight."

He exhaled long and silent before he replied. "Sleep well."

Peter had served Queen Sansa for six years, fought for her several times, and nearly died for her twice. In all that time, he could count on his fingers the number of times she had touched him, and he had touched her once.

A good night.


End file.
